Don't Ever Ask Why
by New Days Dawn
Summary: Frank Marlon centered gen or mild het ficlet, set pre episode three of the anime, based on the anime universe backstory for him. How can a man lose everything he's ever believed in? See inside.


Originally, this was going to be a drabble for my "Drops of Drabble" collection, but it kind of got away from me. . .

Pairing: Frank Marlon/his wife implied.

Warnings: Violence, episode 3 anime spoilers, canonical character death.

* * *

_Just make the guns_, his father had told him on his deathbed, as he signed over the forge he had ran for years to his eldest son. _Don't ever ask why they want them, what they're planning to do, that's not business._

Frank Marlon had lived by those words for years. He loved crafting guns almost as much as his father had, the atmosphere of the forge that he had made his own, the smell and feel of the heat and metal, the precision required in making every weapon distinctive and yet functional for its purpose, and most of all, the notoriety and respectability of being one of the region's, if not the planet's, most renowned gunsmiths. This was the life his father had made for himself, and he wanted it to be the life he would make for himself, and for the son he dreamed of having one day.

He liked to think, in those days, that he was helping good folk defend themselves, that the robbers and bandits and killers who stalked the planet seeking illicit fortune and fame found their weapons elsewhere, and the newspaper clippings he'd paste to his wall of the stories when one of his guns was used, of arrested bandits, of killers who had finally met justice, of the good guys winning, reassured him.

When the guns from his forge, in his hands and those of the townspeople, saved Warrens City itself from an armed bandit takeover, it had only deepened his trust that only good men and women sought his guns to protect themselves, that he was saving what was left of humanity rather than destroying it.

Opening the forge that morning, he had been occupied with the thoughts of daily life. His wife, who had given him his daughter a few years before, had just told him of her pregnancy that morning, and he couldn't help daydreaming a bit about teaching his son how to love weapons and respect them as much as he did, to carry on the legacy of the Marlon Forge of Warrens City, as he busied himself with the finishing work on four guns that had been ordered two weeks before that day.

Something had seemed so _off_ about these men when they had arrived in the shop to place their orders. Their clothes seemed so unusually lavish for even rich men, yet they reeked of an almost rotten stench of sweat and cheap alcohol, of cologne and urine, an odor that had hit his nose almost as soon as the door opened. He'd almost expected their attitude to be as bad as the odor, but the leader of the group had been almost eerily calm and polite.

"We need four guns," he had said coldly as he looked back at his men. "One for each of us, please."

"Give me more than that," Marlon remembered asking, as the men stood there, all but the leader seeming somewhat fidgety, which was almost always a very bad sign, and he put his hand on the gun in his belt out of instinct for a second, re-engaging the safety and turning back to the counter when the man at the counter signaled for his friends to leave. "This is a custom forge. I need to know what you all are looking for in a gun."

"Don't ask me," the man, who looked barely out of his teens, snapped. Regaining his composure in a few seconds, he looked at the smith with a sad look. "Ahem, my apologies, kind sir. I need the kind of gun that shoots fast. As you can see, I am but a very weak man and I have been threatened with robbery," his voice dropped dramatically, "and worse. If you can keep me alive, I will be forever grateful."

That had been more than enough incentive to make him overcome his misgivings at the time, and what left him with the four guns on which he was now putting the finishing touches. The best he could figure it over the two weeks, these young men were most likely a group of orphans or escaped slaves, and it was his responsibility and the responsibility of these guns to keep them safe from the harm they would likely face otherwise, until they could stop their wanderings and settle down, until they could finally escape at least some of the suffering the planet had to offer in abundance and begin calm, peaceful lives like his own, like those of the others in this city.

The men came back for their guns that day, taking them in total silence and paying with bank bags of money, which was something else that had set off some alarm bells. What kind of men paid with bank bags instead of wrapped double dollars or a check, and how did men so poor have such money anyway? _Maybe they stumbled on a disappeared town,_ he reassured himself. _Wouldn't blame 'em if they did._

- - -

Days later, as he sat in the sheriff's office, the bodies of his wife and daughter cooling in the morgue next door, he learned that the bullets recovered from their bodies were from those very weapons, those guns made so lovingly by his own hands.

His father's last words filtered through his alcohol-numbed mind.

_If you know why they want guns, you'll never forgive yourself._


End file.
